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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29847243">Judgment of a Traitor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuriV1/pseuds/Auriana%20Valoria'>Auriana Valoria (AuriV1)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Forgotten Realms, Neverwinter Nights</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cania, City of Judgment, Fugue Plane, Gen, Judgment, damnation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:02:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,927</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29847243</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuriV1/pseuds/Auriana%20Valoria</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aribeth de Tylmarande is dead, and she now faces her Judgment as a False soul of Tyr.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aribeth de Tylmarande/Fenthick Moss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>AU Realms</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Judgment of a Traitor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnippetsRUs/gifts">SnippetsRUs</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic is an attempt to rectify a small issue I had with Aribeth's dialogue in <i>Hordes of the Underdark</i>, where she mentions she doesn't know how she got to the Hells. With such a structured death system as the Realms possesses, Aribeth would have known <i>precisely</i> how she got there and would more than likely have no problems remembering it. This is how I headcanon it happened and how she arrives at some of her conclusions about herself by the time she is encountered by the Hero of Hilltop.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Aribeth de Tylmarande.”</p><p>The razor edge of her name sliced through the heavy fog enveloping her thoughts like a thrown dagger, finding its mark in her soul and forcing all her attention to the one who had spoken it.</p><p>The god of the dead.</p><p>
  <em>Dead?</em>
</p><p>Dead. Yes, she was dead.</p><p>She remembered, now. Suddenly, that fog began to lift like morning mist; it was as if hearing her name allowed her to finally anchor her mind after it had been cut loose to wander when her heart beat its last. Memories of her violent end directly juxtaposed those of her arrival in this grey place – there was no in-between…</p><p>And then the paladins had come, clad in their somber armor. She knew their aura well, but it felt like stinging needles of light against the shadows of her spirit – too bright. Nothing like it once had felt to her. They had wordlessly pulled her from the line of supplicants she hadn’t recalled voluntarily joining, escorting her by the arms down the seemingly-eternal cobbled street towards a tower of solid rock – a carved smoked crystal spear as dull in color as the world around it but sharp as a knife against her soul. Higher it loomed, ever higher as they neared and neared and neared. She thought it would never stop <em>growing</em>.</p><p>But when they entered its darkened hall, she found her gaze would not leave the shining floor. For she felt in her gut exactly where they were taking her. To <em>whom</em> they were taking her. She’d studied the planes; she knew the order of the cosmos and its many pantheons, even after its recent upheaval. And that knowledge had not left her, even as her thoughts were muddled with death.</p><p>The god of the dead.</p><p>Yes, she was dead.</p><p>This was the Fugue Plane – the endless grey wasteland where all souls traveled upon death to be taken to either the home of their gods or to meet their Judgment.</p><p>The latter was her designated fate – the destiny chosen for her by universal order, to be meted out not by divine proxy, it seemed, but by the god of the dead himself. The god she now knelt before and who spoke her name with all the overwhelming weight of her cursed corruption behind it.</p><p>Kelemvor. The Judge of the Damned.</p><p>
  <em>Damned…</em>
</p><p>Was it a punishment or an honor to have her stained spirit Judged personally by him? Perhaps, she thought darkly, it should be considered something of an accomplishment to find oneself thrown at the feet of the Lord of all Damned Souls to accept whatever doom he decided to deal…</p><p>
  <em>Damned…</em>
</p><p>He sat upon his throne before her, garbed in darkness – blackened armor and a dark hooded cloak that shrouded him in shadowed obscurity. But amidst that darkness was a silver death mask that shone in the white sconce-fire like a mirror, and as she gazed upon it, the weight that her name brought to her began to multiply tenfold until she thought she would be crushed beneath both it and divine gaze alike.</p><p>“Aribeth de Tylmarande,” he repeated (yes, that was her… it was her… it was <em>her</em> name), “betrayer of Tyr and Tyr’s City of Neverwinter. You have been brought before me because you willingly turned your back upon your god, and now your soul is mine to Judge as I see fit according to the crimes you committed in your life… of which there are <em>many</em>.”</p><p>His expression, even his eyes, was concealed completely behind the silver of his mask, and his tone – low, quiet, and even as it was – was largely impassive. Thus, his disposition was indecipherable. Yet, with every word he uttered, more of that terrible weight <em>pressed</em> down upon her shoulders, making it difficult to keep her head up… to keep her gaze upon that sculpted face.</p><p>Was it him, or was it <em>her</em>?</p><p>“There are few whose offenses against mortalkind surpass yours, short as your life has been,” he remarked, leaning forward upon his throne, and though he spoke matter-of-factually, she could not help but sense displeasure carried upon his words. “You turned your back on the people you were sworn to protect, broke your sacred oath as a paladin, cursed the name of your god, devoted yourself to the unholy cause of a creature bent on the destruction of the North and of all other races, reveled in the deaths of thousands – including those of children – and were fully prepared to add more to their ranks had not one soul stopped you. All in the name of neither Morag nor Maugrim Korothir nor Fenthick Moss… but of your own.” He paused, his mask slowly tilting downwards, and she felt like a lowly worm before that unmoving visage; his eyes may not have been visible, but they still bore into her like rays of searing light. “What have you to say in your defense?”</p><p>Silence. It pressed upon her like invisible walls. For a long moment, his question seemed to resonate within her very self, and she found she was unable to speak… to force the echo of her vocal cords to reproduce her voice in reply. But then, at last, with the final vestiges of her strength shoving the words from her lips, regardless of the consequences, she answered him.</p><p>“There is no defense for one such as me,” she hissed. “I know this. All I wanted… all I <em>needed</em>… was vengeance to ease my heart. And even that was taken from me, in the end, all of my crimes for naught! I have nothing left. So mete out your Judgment, Lord of the Dead. Whatever it is, I welcome it.”</p><p>He stood, then, in a deliberate and fluid move that sent a dart of fear racing through her, despite her resignation to whatever fate he chose to deliver.</p><p>“I would not speak so brazenly, mortal,” he replied, a darkness lacing his tone. “Your pride is no defense against me, and neither is your tongue a blade with which you may attack me with any degree of success. But yes,” his mask shimmered as he looked down upon her with a slow nod, “<em>vengeance</em>. That which has shaped both your life and your death beyond even your own knowledge. That which you concealed behind the nobler name of justice in an effort to elevate your perpetual lust for gratification into holy righteousness.”</p><p>She felt as though she had been struck by Tyr’s hammer, even as indignation very suddenly overpowered all other thoughts. But before she could open her mouth to protest against such a charge, he continued on, pulling his gauntleted hands behind his back as he slowly descended the dais upon which his throne sat and began to pace.</p><p>“It was the first step on the journey that led you here. Do you remember? Your desire for vengeance against the orcs that destroyed your home and family drove you to seek them out and deal death in kind. Yet it was not enough to sate your hunger for revenge, your thirst for blood, and so you continued your genocidal mission until it proved almost your own destruction.</p><p>“Only when you were rescued from certain death and presented with the ways of a paladin did your quest for bloodshed finally end. But then a new one began… one that you intended to reconcile your past deeds with your future service to a higher power. You needed to believe that Tyr saved you because of your desire for justice – that your ruthless campaign against all orcs was holy and righteous, and not one borne of bloody vengeance. And that was where your end truly began.”</p><p>He paused, mask cocking at her. “It was a powerful image you crafted of yourself, and the people of Neverwinter fueled it so long as they looked up to you – believed you and your word as without flaw. Your marriage to Fenthick Moss would have further solidified that perfect portrait you had painted. His execution, however, stained it with his blood, did it not?”</p><p>She remained silent, staring up at him, completely unable to form a reply. A storm of emotions rushed through her very being, strong enough it might lift her from her knees at any moment. It was too much to bear… too much!</p><p>“You knew the punishment handed to him by the court was unjust the moment the sentence was passed,” he continued, resuming his pacing, “and yet a paladin of Tyr, a champion of justice itself, was <em>silent</em>. Had you truly desired justice for him, you would have intervened then, even at the cost of your own reputation. But you did not. You refused to condemn him to the gallows, yes, but you also refused to truly defend him from it, all because the eyes of Lord Nasher Alagondar and the city of Neverwinter were upon you, watching you and expecting you to bend to their will. And in so doing, you ultimately denied justice to one who needed it most.</p><p>“Yet you dared to place full blame at the feet of the mob,” he paused again, “because they destroyed what you had created for yourself. And what unfolded afterwards was not vengeance for his sake. It was vengeance for <em>yours</em>.”</p><p>She reeled. Kelemvor’s words cut deep. Too deep. Deeper than she thought such things could ever strike at her. But not because they were barbs of his divine creation, no. Because they had been <em>extracted</em> from her very soul. The weapons he used against her had been forged in her own heart, and now they found their bloody sheaths in her.</p><p>“The façade of justice failed you, then,” he concluded as he turned towards her fully. “As long as serving Tyr served <em>you</em>, you were content. But true justice would never have warranted the actions you took following Fenthick’s death, and a paladin of true justice could never allow herself to commit such atrocities, no matter how broken her heart. Thus you willingly set aside that image you created in favor of that which has haunted you since the beginning… because you needed it more than the higher ideal with which you masked it. You lost your faith in justice not because there was no such thing, but because what you desired in your heart was not justice at all. You found more comfort – more gratification – in an endless quest for bloody vengeance, instead.</p><p>“And so the City of Tyr committed its own crimes, yes,” he acknowledged, “but you walked from Tyr’s side of your own volition. And that path of vengeance is indeed what brought you directly to me.”</p><p>It was then that the Lord returned to his throne, cloak swirling as he seated himself upon the crystal once again. “You are False, Aribeth de Tylmarande. But there is no place in the City of Judgment for one such as you. Even the most depraved of souls who find themselves in my realm pale in comparison. No… those with your depth of self-service, your level of hatred and crimes against mortalkind, belong only in one place upon the planes. I hereby banish you to Cania, Eighth of the Nine Hells of Baator, and it is there, in its all-consuming fields of ice, that you will find your fate.”</p><p>And with that, a blinding flash of light suddenly consumed her sight, almost painful against her form, and she felt as though she were being torn apart at the seams by a blast of raw energy, before all went black.</p>
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